Things That Make Your Heart Melt

Sunday was the children's program in church, as a result, the opening hymn was "I am a Child of God."

Woodstock, who loves music almost as much as Pebbles, looked at me with delight - as she knows the words to two of the verses.

She sat there, all 25 1/2 months of her, and sang all the words to the first two verses.

I had to concentrate on the chorister so I didn't start crying.

I love that kid.

Charity Never Faileth ... But Sometimes it Goes Awry

Tuesday night I stood in my kitchen, a newborn happily swaddled and sitting in her bouncy seat on the counter (shhh! don't tell the child safety police), and toddler standing next to me on a dining room chair, peppering with questions like "whas dat?" and "chocat chip?" every 30 seconds. I was attempting to make pumpkin bars for a funeral.

Wait ... first week back at work, second day in, sleep-deprived, infant with acid reflux, toddler who developed "selective hearing" on her second birthday ... BAKING? For a funeral?! Are you insane?

Probably.

But I decided that I need to do more to help others out - because I've been on the receiving end a lot of late, and as much as I'd love to claim that I'm a big-hearted saint of a woman, it's really more half-truth than truth (half-truth because I aspire to be that, but I'm not so much). Besides, how hard is it to bake a batch of pumpkin bars for the funeral of the sister of a woman from church I'm assigned to visit?

Rather complicated, as it turns out.

So the baking went fairly well, but I had to frost them before I went to bed, so I could deliver them the following evening to another woman from church, as they wanted the deserts to be dropped off at 8 a.m. on Thursday - the morning of the funeral - and I'm lucky to get us all out of the house fully clothed and fed by 8:30 these days.

Anyway, the bars hadn't quite cooled, so the cream cheese frosting melted a little into the cake-like bars, but still ... not so bad. Except, remember the toddler, who was still helping - which means that the bars defintely tasted much better than they looked. And the newborn who had given up on peaceful slumber and was wailing that she might starve to death in the next 30 seconds if I didn't drop everything and feed her rightthisverysecond. Instant gratification starts early!

Fast forward to last night (Wednesday). I remember suddenly that they'd asked that we bring the "individual serving desserts" (ie cookies, cupcakes, bars) on something that was disposable, so the family wouldn't have to return the dish. Complication. It appears that in all my stocking-up, paper plates are not to be found anywhere in my house. And since there is no such thing as a "quick trip to the store" when it involves a newborn and a toddler, well ... never mind, I thought, I had to drop the bars off at someone else's house that evening and maybe she would have something suitable.

Meanwhile, it turns out Woodstock can reach way back on top of the chest freezer. Turns out she can reach a lot of things these days I didn't know about (like my vitamins - thank heavens it was just the Vitamin D!) Turns out toddler finger prints make a really big mess in cream cheese frosting. I smoothed it out the best I could - at least her fingers were clean.

I called the neighbor to see if she was home and I could drop off the bars. Pebbles picked that moment to need to eat rightthisverysecond (Murphys Law says that if the baby is crying, the phone will ring, and if you pick up the phone, the baby will start to cry just to spite you). Above the wailing, I heard the answering machine picked up. No worries, the evening was still youngish ... another couple of hours until my eyes would be so bleary I'd have to head to bed, whether or not I had accomplished anything.

Bedtime came and went, two middle-of-the-night feedings came and went (payback for falling asleep early and not waking up to feed Pebbles at 10:30 p.m. - curses!), the alarm clock came ... and went. (Twice this week I've slept through the annoying little artificial birdies that are supposed to wake me). This was the day - the pumpkin bars needed to be on something disposable and delivered to the relatives of the deceased by 8 a.m.

Wasn't going to happen.

I ran through various scenarios in my mind as I seared short ribs in my pjs in hopes that the crock pot would magically turn them into dinner by the time I got home. I could just not drop them off...except that invalidated the whole purpose to begin with and really who needs to be stuck with a sheet pan full of bars frosted with cream cheese, butter and sugar? I could try and see if anyone else in the neighborhood was dropping theirs off - and could they drop mine off too? But that required too much time.

And what to do about the #$%#$%^#%& disposable plate problem? In a flash of MacGuyver-like inspiration, I cut the flap off of a diaper box (of which we have plenty) and covered it in tinfoil. Voila! Disposable pumpkin bar transporter.

I slogged through the morning, barely able to keep my eyelids open. Of course, because I needed to leave the house early, everything (and everybody) moved in slow motion. We left the house at 8:40 a.m. - and gone were both my chances of making it to work or delivering the goodies reasonably close to on time.

I drove up to the home of the family to whom the bars needed to be delivered. Good sign - all vehicles were still present and accounted for. I rang the bell. For a moment I felt sheepish about ringing someone's doorbell at 8:40 a.m. - then realized of course they'd be up - today was a funeral after all.

The man of the house answered the door in his pjs. Odd.

He looked at me quizzically when I said, "These are for you," so I added, "For the funeral." He thanked me, still puzzled. I drove to work, slightly amazed at how much work it took to produce 24 pumpkin bars for a fumerarl, and put it out of my mind.

Until I checked my voice mail on my cell phone this morning.

"Sara, this is Sister X. I wanted to let you know we got the date of the funeral wrong. It is FRIDAY. Not Thursday. So you can drop them off at 8 a.m. Friday."

Odd. I don't remember missing any calls on Tuesday or Wednesday. I looked back through all of my calls ... not a single one that indicated it was missed. I simply just had a voice mail show up.

Creepy.

And aggravating! No wonder the man of the house appeared baffled and in his pjs. No wonder the woman I'd arranged to take my goodies early wasn't home the night before the funeral.

Do you think pumpkin bars - cut and placed on tinfoil-covered cardboard - will last until mid-day tomorrow and still taste okay?

I give up. Maybe I am insane.

Stumped

I am now the lone Sunday School educator of 15+ 14- and 15-year-olds. This should be an adventure. After nearly a year of every-other-week responsibility, I'm now on the every week schedule. And there is no relief in sight for them. Poor kids are stuck with someone who likes teaching but is incubating a kiddo that is going to rival Einstein in smartness, given the number of brain cells it feels he/she is leaching from her brain.

I do love it though - it is my favorite church calling EVER. And that is saying a lot, because I've generally won the lottery when it comes to church callings over the last several years.

What I don't like, is being stumped. Not just because I don't know the answer, but because it is a question I have had as well - one that has niggled at the back corners of my brain every time I've heard the story of the organization of the Church (this week's lesson subject).

One of the girls - smart, sophisticated, talented - passionate about pursuing a career on Broadway - raised her hand when we were talking about the first members and asked, "Why weren't there any women?"

I stopped. Thought. Stopped. Looked at her, the bishop (pastor's) daughter, and wondered what on earth I could say to answer her that wouldn't get me strung up my my toenails. I settled with, "I really don't know. And I've wondered the exact same thing."

This bunch might look like the typical average group of American teens - defiant, wickedly talkative and mired in pop culture so deep they all come sporting their "individuality" that looks remarkably just like the "individuality" of everyone else their age, but underneath lies a brilliance that scares me a bit.

It wasn't just the "stump the teacher question" - asked because she genuinely wanted to know (so do I, I just don't think the answer is out there), but the initial question I asked at the lesson's beginning - where do you want to be in ten years? The answers astounded me. More than that, their plans for getting there astounded me.

I hope I don't have to teach the same group when they are my age. I'll have to submit my resignation, as their 30-year-old version of "stump the teacher" questions, still just as valid and complicated, will not only be ones I don't know the answers to, but will be questions I hadn't even considered.

It was one of those days where I certainly learned more than they did.

The Voice of Angels

The other night I was driving home from dinner with friends and listening to a CD that I had dug out of a massive box of junk that somehow had made the move (and 7 months of habitation) without having been opened. It's not a CD I listen to often, the older I get, the less music I've found myself listening to, as my brain gets too busy to enjoy it (it's one of the hallmarks of my anxiety issue).

The second-to-last song came on, and I nearly had to pull over to listen to it. The song, "Who Will Be the Real Hero?" in and of itself is a rather forgettable song. Easy to sing along to, just sappy enough to make you feel warm and fuzzy. But it wasn't the song that nearly stopped me in my 65 mph tracks headed northbound in The Frontier. It was the memories that came flooding back.

The majority of my high school was a member of a single, locally prominent religion. As a result, the majority of students, during their "elective" period, took religion, offered across the street from campus. Because of the large number of students enrolled in the religion program, they had a council of a dozen or so seniors each year, who planned activities, peer involvement events and traveled to all the local congregations throughout the school year to speak during a church service.

I had the privilege of serving with some of the most incredible people on that council my senior year. Throughout the year, we tried (mostly unsuccessfully) to learn a hymn, which we could perform mid-way through our Sunday program when we visited local congregations. To say it was horrible is probably a little strong, but I'm not so sure I could call it "good" - we had a handful of musically-inclined people and a lot more not-so-musically-inclined people. But we tried. And getting a group of high school seniors to sing for a religious service period is kind of it's own miracle, so no one really complained.

However, the Sunday before graduation each year, the religion department held its own graduation, honoring students who had completed 3 and 4 years of elective religious study (another miracle). It was tradition for the council to sing. This meant we had to do something more complicated that the hymn we had lovingly tried to sing through the year - and it probably had to sound better.

We practiced. There was wailing and gnashing of teeth. At the same time there was some (details now forgotten) drama among the ranks, causing even more stress than normal. Whispers of "this is never going to sound good at all" swirled through the group, as everyone (musically-inclined and not) wished for another option to show our dedication and appreciation.

The night of the event came. During our last rehearsal, we could barely be heard 3/4 of the way back in the congregation - and that was without any people filling their seats yet. We stumbled. We groaned. We sounded ... okay. But no one who wasn't lying (or our parents) was going to come up and tell us that we had contributed to the spirit of the meeting.

Immediately following the rehearsal, we gathered in prayer. Someone pleaded that we would be able to sound good and bring a good spirit. Then the graduation began, we took our seats and forgot about anything more than our individual tasks.

As we stood to sing, something changed. Something palpable settled down on us. When we opened our mouths, it wasn't our voices at all, but the voices of angels that reached out into the congregation. Our hearts filled with an amazing sense of love and peace.

When the night was over, we were met with astonished exclamations - from parents and our advisor (who had heard our woeful musical attempts enough to know it wasn't actually us singing) to random relatives and members of the audience, stunned by such a performance by an otherwise obviously rag tag group of teenagers.

The song we sang: "Who Will Be The Real Hero."

More than anything, hearing the song again, for the first time in years, brought back what happened AFTER the song had been sung and the crowds had departed. It brought back a memory I'm not sure I'd thought of since that night ... Of a crowd of teens, who had loved, struggled, learned and grown together for an entire year, who had just experienced a miracle. Of hugs and tears and wonder. Of disbelief, of faith, of hope and anticipation. A memory of clinging together in awe over the small miracle, in sadness that our time as a family of sorts was over, in hope that the goodness would remain in each of us.

I haven't seen the majority of that group in more than a decade, though I often wonder what they're up to. It was nice to have a quiet moment to remember such a significant point in time, when I was surrounded by incredible people, whose voices sounded like angels.

Tradition v. Testimony

Yesterday in Sunday School we had an interesting debate-lightly-disguised-as-a-conversation about tradition v. testimony - those who practice religion because it's "tradition" (everyone else in the family does it, so why not?) versus those who practice religion because they have a testimony of the core principles, ordinances and beliefs.

I was amazed at how many people who said they were glad to be born the religion they were, because they could never change something that was so deeply ingrained as a tradition in their family.

For some reason, that bothered me.

I am the same religion as my parents. I was baptized at age 8, attended religion classes throughout high school and college, teach Sunday School and (try to, at least) follow the principles and precepts of said religion.

However, while I was introduced to the religion by my parents and grew up learning the principles and precepts from childhood, I don't stay because it's "tradition." Indeed, it requires far too much effort to stay because my family thinks it's a good idea. I've long done little things to prove I am my own person within the family group.

For instance, I am the kid who got a lime-green retainer, not because I wanted one but because my mom said, "You can get any color but green." (She thought it was gross. I thought if she couldn't come up with a better reason, it was a perfectly legitimate way in which to safely rebel).

I registered for the "other" political party upon turning 18, just to prove a point - which was largely that I could make my own decisions (we'll dispense with whether or not it's a good idea that an 18-year-old can legally be allowed to make his/her own decisions).

I chafed at being told how to fold towels, so I started folding them my own way when I left home (only to relent to my mom's version several years later, once I realized why she was so picky about it).

I thought washing baseboards - a weekly activity in our household - was a dumb idea, so I didn't do that either. Until I realized how gross they get if one never cleans them.

I even went through a (gasp) not-going-to-church-much phase, as I worked out my own place in the world and my own theology and philosophy.

The point being, it would take a lot more than my parents' dedication to a religion to make me go to church at 1 p.m. on a Sunday afternoon just for the heck of it, for example. Among other, larger things.

I don't doubt that the people who said they could not change religions because of family tradition have a testimony (to some degree) of the religion in which they profess to believe. Yet, I often wonder how many show up on Sunday because they feel obligated to and leave feeling as if they've done their "religious duty" for another week, only to metaphorically put it on a shelf until the next Sunday rolls around.

I did that. It didn't work out so well for me. I'm far from perfect (my list of "sins of omission" could create an epic-length decree), but I try (some times harder than others) and I believe (not "try to believe" but trying and believing - just to clarify). For me, while I was introduced, and certainly influenced, by my family - I don't stay because it makes mom or dad happy. I practice (some times more faithfuly than others) because I truly believe. Because it brings peace. Because enough of it makes sense to my logical self to ground me and there is enough hope and reassurance to make my emotional self not feel left out. Because it works for me.

That said, I can't say that I don't love some of the family traditions that have evolved as a result.

Perfection.

Typically, there is some amount of dread regarding General Conference weekends. While I love the instruction from the leadership of the church and I love having a more relaxed Sunday, it is a huge challenge for me to give up my one productive day -Saturday.

But this year, I gave myself a free pass. I did the dishes, straightened up the upstairs and ... let everything else slide.

I scrapbooked while watching conference on Saturday - 4 lovely hours while Woodstock was sleeping. I got to be uplifted and make some progress on Woodstock's baby book. I scrapbooked again Sunday morning for a couple of hours. I joined Heidi for dinner and a fabulous movie Saturday night.

On Sunday, I spent the two-hour break between sessions making potato curry to eat with friends who joined us for the afternoon session. We played one of my favorite games, which hasn't been played since we lived with Jane, as it takes 3 people to play.

Later, we bundled up Woodstock in her pink monkey pjs and went for a walk through the neighborhood, just the three of us. It smelled and felt like fall. We giggled as Woodstock pointed out all of her exciting discoveries (birds, cars, anything that moved, essentially). We delighted as Woodstock chattered and giggled and pointed at the cat that always comes out to greet her and I on our walks. We pointed out houses, yards, architectural details that we loved and speculated on the market price of those homes up for sale.

We came home, gave Woodstock her "boppie" (a term she picked up at Miss Jan's), made hot cocoa with whipped cream and snuggled on the couch to watch a couple of episodes of BBC's Planet Earth on Himself's ridiculous new TV.

It was perfection. All weekend. All of it. It felt like a Rockwell painting for all of its sublime delight. Conference should happen every weekend. Then again, we wouldn't have any clean laundry if it did.

F-E-V-E-R Spells Disappointment

I am, by nature, rather high strung. As a result, there are very few activities or places that I find relaxing. In fact, there is only one place where I feel absolutely, totally relaxed - where I can seperate all of the nonsense chatter in my head from complete serenity.

It is a little campground on a big mountain next to a tiny lake, where the air, even in mid-summer is cool enough for long sleeves in the early hours of the day. For nearly 3 decades, my family has trekked up the mountain for a week of relaxation, hiking, fishing, good food, board games, reading and naps. It was the one place as a children where we could venture out on our own. Every childhood memory there is perfectly preserved, as changes in nature are measured by centuries, not by decades. (So little changes, in fact, a fort constructed by my brother years ago still stands at one of the remote "satellite" lakes located a couple of miles from camp).

This year was to be a year of firsts, and a year of much-needed respite after a year of extreme highs and lows. I was taking Son and Baby Girl for four days - meeting my family (who had arrived days before) and spending some time just being. It was to be my first year as the "middle" generation. My whole body ached with anticipation (and, later, we discovered, it also ached with tonsilitis).

The morning arrived, I piled both kids into the car with the camping gear, the snacks, the range of clothing (mid-summer to early-winter outfits in three different sizes) and all of the baby gear. We drove through some of the most scenic country in Utah for three hours, turned onto a dirt road and drove up the mountain for another hour.

We arrived elated. Sedated. Happy. Ready to unpack and soak up nature, family and the stillness that drives me crazy everywhere else.

An hour later, Baby Girl registered a temperature of 104.9.

For the next 24 hours, it spiked and ebbed ... in the early morning hours our first (and only) morning there, her fever broke without medication and I breathed easier. I bundled her up in a blanket and sat on the end of the dock to watch the ducks. She pointed and chattered a little - but clearly didn't feel like herself. Three hours later, her temperature again reached 104.9. It wouldn't abate.

I hiked a nearby hillside and stood perfectly still to capture the dicey cell signal. I called the ranger stations in the tiny towns on either side of the mountain, searching for a medical clinic.

Exactly 24 hours after arriving, I gathered up Baby Girl, her things and any "necessities," threw them in the car and charged down the mountain - leaving Son to stay an extra day and return home with an aunt.

The official diagnosis was tonsilitis and pneumonia. My heart was broken. Weeks of anticipation followed by 30 minutes of elation and 23.5 hours of worry, concern and confusion had left me heartsick and exhausted. A million questions ran through my head, "how on earth can somone have pneumonia and no signs?" "how did I make Baby Girl feel better?" "was there nowhere I was going to find solace?" "what do people in Wayne County do if they get sick, since there is ONE clinic in the entire county?!"

I cried on the way home. I sobbed the next morning, enveloped by my own case of tonsilitis, exhaustion and self-pity. Home was not the haven I had craved for weeks - rather it was a disheveled collection of half-opened boxes spilling their contents in every room as the process of "moving in" dragged on. There was no family bonding, no relaxation, no hikes or early morning fishing. Baby Girl did not go on the lake on the boat, or up to the lookout tower in the backpack, or to the beaver pond. She didn't play with her cousin, get coddled by Grandpa or experience the great outdoors within the confines of her playpen while I dozed nearby in the clear, cool mountain sunlight.

I read 50 pages between monitoring Baby Girl's temperature between 9 p.m. and 5 a.m. The only reason I left the mountain dirtier than when I arrived was due to diaper leakage.

It felt like running a marathon - excited for the celebration of finishing the race, only to discover part-way through that it had been extended for another 26.2 miles and one must keep on running to the new end point.

I will keep on running. Running and running and running.

(ETA: Baby Girl is fine. Her lungs had cleared by the next morning - after some high-powered antibiotics administered via a shot. Her tonsilitis cleared up almost immediately. She slept for almost an entire day and woke up happy and healthy. I'm still working on getting to sleep for the first time).

Attack of the Mormon Woman Isanities

No secret, we started moving last Saturday. And by started, I really mean STARTED, as in I've spent at least 2 hours every day since (usually 3-4) dragging more stuff from the Hobbit Hole over to the new house and cleaning. The kitchen floor alone took me 45 minutes to mop this morning - not because it was dirty-gross or huge, but because nothing I do makes the bluish linoleum look clean. Ever.

While my kitchen is more or less unpacked (More=all the spices, baking goods, pots-n-pans, utinsels are put away in their proper place; Less=the salad plates, all the bowls, some knives and plastic containers and all the pantry items remain to be found), it is still a contortionist's dream come true, as there are boxes and bags and random things (chains for the car's tires in the kitchen? Really)EVERYWHERE. It's what happens when you move with mostly male help.

At the same time, a woman I have a great deal of respect for is on bedrest with a touch-and-go pregnancy. Being a Mormon Woman, I am a firm believer in the necessity of meals brought in. Even if one has a husband who can cook. Especially when one has a child. So, I volunteered, with the caveat that I had to actually FIND the kitchen first, which would take me until today at least.

There is just one problem: I hadn't gone grocery shopping in a month (other than sending Himself to buy the occassional gallon of milk). So last night, I dragged Himself to the store. He moaned and spent his time adding boxes of rice pudding, maple syrup and other things not on the list as "surprises" (which was definitely a "surprise" when the total bill was $15 more than I had calculated in my head.

This morning, I cut up the veggies and steamed them, so they'd be ready to toss into the sauce for the main dish when I got home. I stuck the can (yes, unopened - no time to look for the can opener) of mandarin oranges in the fridge to chill for the salad. I gave Himself the chicken breasts to grill so they would be ready for me to heat with the sauce this evening.

Then I went to start the cupcakes. All was well until I realized that I buy eggs at Costco. I haven't been to Costco in a month either. I have no eggs. Rather than use my mom's nifty substitute of Knox gelatin and water for eggs and end up ruining the good chocolate going into the cupcakes, I abandoned that project and vowed to make a mad dash by the store on the way home from work.

So now dinner is in varying states of preparation, my kitchen is in varying states of situational distress and I am in varying states of insanity.

Why do I do this to myself?

For those curious, tonight's menu includes:
Penne in a tomato cream sauce (with grilled chicken)- thanks to Diana & Pedro for the recipe and the first introduction to this dish!
Mandarin Spinach Salad with Poppyseed Dressing
Chocolate Cream Cheese Cupcakes

Does it Count if You Sleep Through it?

Today was stake conference - which meant the entire collection of neighborhood congregations met at once, stuffed into a too-small setting, relegating anyone arriving less than 30 minutes in advance to the pea-green, metal folding chairs in the gymnasium.

Himself stayed home - initially because FIL2 was down visiting, then because when FIL left, Himself had no time to get ready and Baby Girl was sound asleep for her second morning nap, after spending most of the night sobbing in my arms.

For some reason, I thought it necessary that I go, even though every fiber of my being was screaming, "no!" I am hoping that Heaven hands out brownie points for doing something that was strongly suggested, even if one didn't get a whole lot out of it. I am fairly certain the theme was "True Conversion." I think.

I slept through probably 50% of the sermons. I'm sure they were wonderful. I woke up during one, mid-nap, and prayed fervently that God would lift the foggy cobwebs and haze of not enough sleep, too much work and a teething infant so that I could commune with him with all the spiritual magnificence I knew I should.

But either He was sympathetic to my plight and figured that the two-hour worship service was all the quiet time I'd have (even seated on a chair so uncomfortable, I nearly spent the service walking up and down the hall, which in retrospect would have meant I would not have fallen asleep) or my willpower was buried somewhere beneath the hypnotic chants of "dim room, need sleep, must have sleep" running through my brain.

I wonder if it counts if you sleep through church?

Soap Box: Marriage

My parents and I tend to have a lot of conversations regarding life, religion, politics, women, education, etc. I like this about my parents, especially since they don't automatically hate me if I have a different opinion. And because they raised me to have an opinion.

On a recent visit to The Parents', we had a conversation about Marriage as a destination vs. a process. Earlier today I read an article that referenced a similar thought, it made my fingers itch to analyze it on a keyboard. (Disclaimer: By nature of my fundamental beliefs about life, families and so forth, here's where I get slightly religious).

We believe that families are forever - that two people can be married by one with the proper authority from God (in the temple) and that they, and any offspring born to them, are linked forever in the eternities. Heaven would be a very sorrowful place to spend by oneself.

As a result, we teach our young women (I can't comment on the young men side, I am never was one, nor have I taught them), that Temple Marriage is the key to eternal salvation. In a matter of speaking. The problem is, here's where doctrine and culture get all mixed up. Doctrinally, yes, eternal (ie temple) marriage (regardless of when it happens) is a key tenet to salvation. But it is not a guarantee. It is not the end of the road. Culturally, however, we teach it as such. People sigh and think happy thoughts when someone is married in the temple, saying, "Oh good. They've made it."

In reality (and doctrinally), marriage (of any kind) is NOT a destination. It is a stepping stone in the process of life. I fundamentally believe that a temple marriage DOES provide extra support and strength to weather the storms of life (internal to, and external of, the marriage). But it does not mean "you've made it."

I have been particularly alarmed of late noticing that young women see marriage as an endpoint. An "arrival" where all will be well if they have the right kind of marriage ceremony. I see those with whom myself and my siblings were raised - with variations on the same theme - and see a staggering pattern of young women who view marriage as a dependent relationship and as their ultimate life's goal.

There is nothing wrong with marriage. There is nothing wrong with having a goal to be married. What scares me is the view of a marriage relationship as a dependency and as THE one and only goal. Should it be a goal? Absolutely! But it shouldn't be the culminating goal on a life's "to accomplish list" - it marks the end of a solitary journey and the beginning of a journey together, which should bring with it an even longer set of dreams, hopes and goals - and work.

Case in point: My youngest brother knows someone whose sole desire in life is to get married, at all costs. In her early 20s, she is desperate to get married. Rather than putting energy into improving herself and building a life (and a persona) that is attractive to men, she dropped out of school, works a dead-end job and lives at home - and concentrates on pushing marriage on every person she dates.

She will achieve her goal of marriage - and probably even temple marriage - but I wonder what kind of marriage it will be? Where does she go from there? What does she have to offer her husband, future children, society? It's not just a lack of formal education, but a lack of life education - the inability to cook, be independent, take care of a household. Yet everyone will cheer for her success and say "all is well," because "the goal" has been reached.

Marriage is hard. It is wonderful and sustaining and fulfilling, but it is hard. It takes work. Neither love (nor a temple marriage) is enough to sustain a relationship. An enormous amount of love combined with work, mutual goals, continual improvement, charity, long-suffering, patience, more work, selflessness, tolerance, acceptance, companionship, and so forth make up a marriage, a long with a good does of reality, forgiveness and a sense of humor.

I cringe to see young women (and young men) enter into one of the most sacred, complex unions completely unprepared. One can never be perfectly prepared, for that would require one (and one's spouse-to-be) to be perfect. Yet, there is an amount of preparedness that one can achieve prior saying "I do" - in preparing oneself to be able to take care of, and provide for, oneself. Some are ready very young. Some are not. Marriage is not a surrender to "here - take care of me forever!" it is a joining of two souls with mutual goals and aspirations, vowing to care for, love and support one another.

I'm by no means an expert. I've only been married five years, and Himself and I are still a work in progress (something akin to how I see Jackson Pollock paintings). But as the number of marriages that fail continues to rise, as the world screams "if you don't feel butterflies, it isn't love," I wonder what kind of disservice we as a culture and society are doing to teach our youth that marriage is a destination, implying that what follows are years of effortless perfection, bliss and butterflies.

I pray I don't fall into the same unintentional cycle as I raise Baby Girl.

End of rant. Off my soapbox.

Party of Six ...

I learned today that I am probably certifiably insane for being excited to teach almost-10-year-old boys at church. Especially when class time is mid-afternoon - smack in the middle of when Baby Girl typically naps and eats.

Today's class resembled something you'd see documented on a Discovery Channel special on why NOT to have multiple children in the same room.

The boys were great. They didn't even bat an eye at sharing the classroom with Baby Girl. I think almost-10-year-olds still think that girls have cooties, which is fine by me. I didn't have to put up with 40 minutes of "can I hold her please?" (Side note: I did not fare so well with the adult population. People think I'm weird, but I LOVE holding Baby Girl - I don't get to do it often enough).

The boys were also - well, boys. After Himself and I found the classroom (did we even know that our church had a second story?!), we walked in to discover one boy leaning back on his chair, one squatting on the windowsill with his head out the window and one looking like he wanted to find the nearest exit and bolt (this would be the son of one of the bishopric members). We then found out that the three extremes had come - one boy is genius-level brilliant and therefore bored most of the time (aka the one perched on the window sill with his head out a second-story window), one boy has a significant learning disability, the other (the one who looked ready to bolt) is smack dab in the middle. He's the one who asked the question I answered incorrectly.

The lesson was on something I've known my entire life, but Baby Girl had, at this point, been screaming intermittently for the past 18ish hours, and when that happens all brain cells go into "self-destruct" mode and I turn into a blathering idiot. One boy asked a question that any reasonably intelligent adult who had been attending our church for any amount of time should be able to answer. I answered wrong. False doctrine on the first week.

Himself sat in the back, unsuccessfully trying to decide if the peep Baby Girl was about to make warranted him leaving the room or not. If he left the room, she quieted immediately, necessitating that he rejoin class. If he didn't, she screwed up her little face and let her cries rip, meaning he couldn't find the door fast enough to not disrupt class.

Himself finished the lesson - or was supposed to. I ended up schlepping Baby Girl to the mother's lounge to eat, where she instantly turned into her normal self, as if she was merely traumatized by the site of so many boys in one room (who could blame her?)

Tune in next week for another update on Baby Girl and The Boys.

Serenity

Sunday ranks in the top five of all good days I've had in my life, even though it had a rough start.

Sunday, I dressed Baby Girl in a long white dress made by a family friend - the same one my sister and I wore as infants. I then added a pair of pink ballet shoes that were a gift from a friend in Virginia and a headband given to her by my sister. Dressed head-to-toe in love, she and I joined Himself, my immediate family, my extended family and a few friends at church. She was then formally named and blessed, surrounded by some of the most important men in her (and our) lives.

It was a moment rich in emotion as I sat in my new congregation and listened to the words of Himself haltingly bless Baby Girl. He was nervous - a strange thing for me to realize about Himself. I could feel the love throughout the rest of the meeting wrap itself around me, seated between Himself and my sister, with Baby Girl nestled between all of us.

Later, during Sunday School, I watched my brother cradle Baby Girl. I watched her snuggle up to him and sigh contentedly into arms that weren't quite sure what to do with such a tiny little baby, dressed almost as an angel. I sat next to an aunt as she held Baby Girl close during the women's service. My heart pounded and my eyes stung.

Just before church ended, I gathered Baby Girl in my arms and walked the 60 or so steps to our house in the warm, late autumn afternoon sun. I entered the Hobbit Hole to find it bursting at the seams with family and friends and the scents of good food. As I settled down in the nursery to rock and feed Baby Girl before our entrance into the frenzy that would move to the backyard (the Hobbit Hole is not equipped for entertaining), my heart swelled again. I listened to the women in the kitchen putting the finishing touches on the appetizer spread Himself and I had coordinated. I listened to the men drifting in and out as they moved the tables and food outside - overhearing snatches of conversation about the big Patriots v. Colts football game.

I wanted to weep. Here, in my little home, cradling my infant daughter to my breast - still dressed in her achingly beautiful, long, white dress - I realized that sacrificing our own comfort zone, the proximity of so many dear friends and journeying to The Frontier was the best thing that could have ever happened to Baby Girl. Here she could grow up, basking in the glow of family, sheltered by a love that comes from deep relationships, knit tight by decades of growing up together.

We emerged out into the backyard, dappled by golden sunlight, awhile later, and I basked in the glow of being surrounded by those people who would act as the founding community of Baby Girl's life - those who, through their presence this incredible day, would pledge their love and support of her as she grows into the remarkable daughter of God she is destined to be.

Somehow, I am confident that Baby Girl was aware of the magnitude of the day - that she knew she was surrounded by a group of people who would move mountains for her.

It will be a day I will always remember - for it's goodness, it's love and the deep impression it left on my soul.

Speechless

Last night, my new neighbors - the women from church - threw me a baby shower, hosted by an elderly woman in the congregation who picked up on my love of food and my pending delivery and "adopted" me - her husband (now suffering from alzheimers) was a professional chef and she has a long-distance great-grand-baby due to be born the week after Baby Girl.

I walked to the shower, excited at the prospect of getting to know these women a little better - maybe well enough at some point to count them as friends.

I left, stunned. Completely overhwelmed at the generosity of women who have known me only at a distance for 8 weeks or so. My sister and best friend from high school threw a shower for old friends a few weeks ago, organized a month prior. Most didn't come - life is pretty hectic for twenty- and thirtysomethings with kids. Last night, a week after invitations went out, there were about 25 women there - some I didn't even recognize - none of whom I knew more than on a "Hi, how are you?" level. I left with armfuls of beautiful things for Baby Girl - many of them hand-made.

The talent, the generosity, the love that filled the room was almost too much for me. I hate being the center of attention and I'm not good at dealing with emotion. I almost didn't know how to react other than to repeat over and over, "I don't know what to say ..." Everyone left saying, "Please call us when she arrives - we can't wait to meet her." Baby Girl is loved by a group of women we will grow to know together.

I have friends who chafe at organized religion. I've had people who have tried to "save" me from being brainwashed. To them I would say, "if this is being brainwashed, I will take it." One of the greatest comforts in my life is knowing that wherever I go in the world, there will be a group of people who will welcome me with open arms, a group of people of a like-mind, a group of people with whom I can begin to forge friendships in each new place I reside. The congregations are composed of individuals and are all different in how they "adopt" new members into their midst, but there is genuine good and caring in each one.

People ask how it is that I have moved cross-country or to a completely new area or city multiple times. If they knew how truly introverted I am by nature, they would scratch their heads even more. It is because I know that no matter where I go, I will find someone who shares my outlook on life. Where I find spiritual substence, I will also find food for my soul - nourished by a myriad of activities, events and opportunities to reach out.

My greatest fear was having Baby Girl and knowing no one.

Right now, my greatest fear is not being able to adequately express my gratitude for a group of women - most of them old enough to be my mother or grandmother - who reached out last night to figuratively hug me and welcome me and my little girl "home."

Invisible

I've been attending church in the Frontier, in my new congregation, for 5 weeks now (minus a Sunday I spent at The Parents' house). The first week, I introduced myself, indicated Himself was still in Virginia and that he would be arriving in about a month. Other than the little old ladies, who found me entertaining, that's about the only interaction I've had.

Until yesterday.

Himself and I went to church. After the main service, a bunch people spoke to us. People asked how we were doing, how the move was going, etc. Someone mentioned how excited I must be to have Himself home. Then, on the way home, Himself tells me that the bishopric (leading lay ministry of the congregation) is coming over on Tuesday to meet us. We were welcomed.
I felt invisible.

For five weeks, I struggled, desperately trying to hold myself together. Lonely. Overwhelmed with the need to unpack and put away and just as overwhelmed with the physical limitations and pains of pregnancy. Feeling homeless and out-of-sorts.

I mentioned to Himself last night that I felt invisible - that suddenly I am "complete" because I have a husband in town, but that no one seemed to notice me before, when I needed human interaction more than anything else. Of course, I had struck up conversations on my own and never asked for anything - mostly because how do you ask complete strangers? And did I really want to be the one labeled as "the psycho pregnant woman who just moved in?" Some things are left better uncovered over time.

But yesterday's conversations and attention were spontaneous. Now comes the offers of help. The "you must have been so lonely in a new place with no husband!" comments. I hadn't felt invisible until that point. I felt like I apparently hadn't existed until then. Nothing big, just a small bruise to my independent ego - I'm not used to being so defined by someone else, I guess, much less Himself.

Practice for the rest of my life - being known as "Baby Girl's mom," I guess.

Gleeful Gossip

The little old ladies in my congregation LOVE me. I could hear them start twittering the moment I walked in this week (not difficult, most of them wear hearing aids and their whispers are louder than most people's "indoor voices"). Some of them remembered my name, which made me happy.

They love me because I am great gossip fodder. I show up, sans Himself, obviously pregnant and announce that "my husband and I have just moved from the DC area." Of course, it takes awhile for the Ladies' hearing aids to kick in, which means they hear the "...I have just moved from the DC area" part.

You can almost feel the excitement as they try to discern if I am in my "delicate condition" with or without a husband. I figured this out very quickly when one asked, "So ... did you move here by yourself?," complete with nervous glances and gestures. Very much a la the kid in junior high who comes up to say "he said, she said, he said that he really likes you."

In speaking with them this week, I did a lot of waving around of my left hand. Problem is, I don't wear a wedding band, only my engagement ring. You wouldn't believe the number of questions I still get, 4.5 years after tying the knot, about when I'm going to get married. The traditionalists out there assume there is no way I wouldn't wear both, so it only feeds the fire, versus actually solving any of their curiosities. (For the record, I just never found a wedding band I liked that went with my engagement ring).

I could just picture such a conversation (*Disclaimer - the second part is just my "filling in the gaps" between the twitters with my own, vivid imagination, not anything real).

Old Lady 1: "Did she say she just moved here?"
Old Lady 2: "Yes, from DC"
Old Lady 1: "Just her?"
Old Lady 2: "It appears so. She's been by herself for two weeks now."

After speaking to me
Old Lady 1: "Well, she has an engagement ring. That's nice."
Old Lady 2: "Yes. I hate to see what the world is coming to. At least she looks like she's engaged."

At which point I can no longer conjure up any sort of conversation, because I've imagined myself into hysteria, laughing over the gleeful gossip for which I must be cause, since Himself is still firmly ensconced back in the DC area.

Of course, the "sans Husband" part is only one of the delights - the other is the fact that they are all at least 80+ and have apparently gotten over their generations' aversion to speaking of pregnancy in public. I am the only noticeably pregnant woman in the congregation. They are FULL of questions about Baby Girl, myself and how things are going - gleefully soaking in every detail I'm willing to share (which admittedly, isn't much).

A near fight broke out yesterday among the group of 4 or 5 octagenarians when I answered one question about my due date, the answer going unheard by one woman whose "hearing aids were acting up." Pained that she didn't hear the answer, she repeatedly asked it, causing the others to "shush" her (again, too quietly for her hearing aid), causing me to pause to figure out whether to answer her or the latest question, which led the women to continue asking more questions, leaving the woman with the hearing aid issue further behind in the dust and repeating herself (loudly) over and over. It was pure pandemonium - blue-haired hysteria. I had to keep from doubling over and laughing. To think I was interesting enough (okay, even counting the only half-correct information) to cause a near riot among the aged.

Himself reminded me, "Just wait 'til they find out you are working, aren't quitting even when Baby Girl comes, have been married for over four years and are approaching 30. THAT will really get them going."

I think he's right. This could mean months of delightful entertainment for the Little Old Ladies. Clearly I'm the most exciting thing that has happened in weeks. Hee hee.